Hunted
by MassEffectBountyHunter
Summary: Thirteen of Earth's best warriors thrown on a planet to be hunted by the universe's dealiest predators: the Yautja. Can the humans unite to surive? Or will their vast differences tear them apart and kill them all...?


**Hunted**

_Hell?_

Falling. He was falling! He could feel it before his eyes flashed open and he saw it. The pretty blue hassled by puffs of clouds, it was all passing him faster then he was used to!

He looked down but it was difficult due to the repeating flips in midair. All he could see was a sea of green as he flailed his limbs uselessly trying to get some sort of flight control. But his attempts were futile as the sea of green below rose to meet him. Like a tsunami the green seemed to open up into a mouth, waiting for him to fall in…

Yet finally a loud beep emitted. He heard a whooshing sound he knew all too well. A parachute! He jerked his head up and sure enough found a tan canopy above his head, catching the air like a net and slowing him. Now the green sea didn't look so terrifying. It simply looked, like a jungle…

He could make out trees, ferns, vines, and bushes below. Sometimes the occasional mud splotch, a few streams, and perhaps even a hill or two. His view was shrinking fast because even with the parachute he was still descending quite fast. In fact, he guessed only another five hundred feet before impact, figuring so he struggled to tug himself into a ball. Grabbing his knees to his chest with his arms the best he could. The tallest of trees were but seconds away. His final step for preparing for impact was closing his eyes, he did so now, praying this wouldn't be the end of Steve H. Carter…

The first branch on the tallest tree smacked his foot sending him awkwardly falling to the jungle's floor. But at about halfway down the tree's mossy trunk, the parachute snagged a branch and stopped abruptly, flinging him forward brutally. He opened his eyes once more and looked about wildly. He was about twenty yards from the ground, which was a small clearing, with a massive log lying across the center. Other than that, the foliage was much too thick for him to see through. It all looked like a green mesh of nothing. But jungle's always hid things; Steve knew that as well as anyone…

Looking up he realized why he had stopped descending. He then checked himself over for the first time and was stunned. _His kidnappers left him with all his gear?_

Sure enough, the U.S ranger still wore his camouflage uniform and had his M4 carbine strapped over his shoulder. His Berretta M9 strapped to his hip, the back pack sagging against his lower back under the parachute pack. He had everything!

Fortunately, this included a bowie knife, which was sheathed and tucked away in one of his back pack's pockets. The only issue was removing it from said back pack… The U.S ranger kicked and struggled to reach but after several seconds of precious fighting, he was forced to give up due to the strain on his back.

He hung limply, staring about his green mesh prison. He was gathering his breath for another attempt. As he hung thinking about all the possibilities that could have happened to him, parts of the ranger creed rang in his head.

_R__ecognizing that I volunteered as a Ranger, fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession, I will always endeavor to uphold the prestige, honor, and high esprit de corps of the Rangers…_

With that in his head, he flung his arms back and this time succeeded in snapping the pack's pocket open and retreiving the knife. Gripping it tightly he drew the shiny blade. The sunlight filtering through the tree tops allowed himself to see his face in the blade's reflection. He grinned and reached up to grab one of the strings that attached him to the parachute snagged in the tree. If he simply cut himself free, he had a good twenty five yard fall, that wouldn't do. He couldn't risk breaking a leg, especially in unknown and most likely hostile territory…

A sweat broke the man's brow. It leaked from his dusty brown, buzz cut hair over his caterpillar like brows into his blue-gray eyes. He made a stern face of thought and looked up at the parachute once more. Perhaps if he only cut one string he could swing into the tree and shimmy his way down.

It was his only hope, unless he preferred falling.

So the U.S ranger raised his knife to the string and sawed, quickly cutting the string causing him to lurch downwards. He let out a gasp of surprise because for a second he actually thought he was going to fall. But to his amazement he still hung in peril above the clearing. The parachute still clutching the branch with him beneath.

Steve took a deep breath and pushed his M4 towards his back. Thank god he had put a strap on the carbine, otherwise he would have most certainly lost it in the fall. His eyes found the mossy trunk and squinted intensely. Then with all his might he flung himself at the tree.

Immedietaly the frail string supporting his weight snapped and the ranger smacked the tree with a grunt. He instantly began sliding down its slippery form, his world zooming past him like he was falling again. Before he knew it, Steve hit solid ground with his boots, and fell flat on his butt, painfully.

He stared up at the perilous height he had once been at. One slight misshap and he could have easily fallen to his death from there. All he would have to do is land on his neck, and that would be the end of him. Thankfully, that hadn't happened, and the thirty eight year old ranger was still very much alive.

He stood clumsily and gazed about his surronding incredously. Whatever jungle he was in, the humidty was unbearable. Everything from his feet to his ears burned from the moist, hot air. In fact, he was sweaing uncrontrobablly too. His arm pits were already drenched along with the back of his neck. Probably because he was carrying so much equpiment and ammunition. Thinking of such, he began to feel about his back for the parachtue pack.

He found it and pried it off, throwing it to the ground. Next he adjusted his back pack so it didn't hang so low, and swung his M4 carbine into his grip. His knife was once again tucked into the backpack, and his ammuntion was still strapped around his waist like a belt. His kidnappers even left him with his dog tags, which gripped his sweaty neck proudly.

The foliage that surronded him seemed to watch him. He got an almost strange sixth sense that he wasn't alone. His gaze intensified as he strained with his eyes trying to use his keen observation skills to notice something. It was to his dismay that he discovered nothing.

So all the ranger could wonder as he began to trudge along, was where is he? His face was content and his body moved confidently but deep down in the back of his skull, a little voice was telling him that this… _Was hell…_

**XVX**

His blue eyes flashed open like lightening in the dark of night. His hand instinctively moved to the back of hs khakis where his Glock sat tightly against his lower back, tucked into his belt. In mere seconds he was on his feet aiming the gun about in a professional manner. His brow was caked with sweat that was slowly making its way down his nose behind his glasses. Soon he was blinking to get his own bodily fluids out of his eyes.

"Damn it," he muttered to himself angrily as he blinked repeatdly. His gun hand lowering to the ground while his other hand retreived a hankercheif from his trench coat pocket. He proceeded to wipe his forehead and glasses with it before tucking it away once more.

He quickly learned it was much too hot and humid for his trench coat however. He was in a jungle, which was no such place for a coat of any sort. So the middle aged man removed the coat, along with any belongings hidden in its pockets. Soon he stood in nothing but his khakis, button up shirt, with his Glock and about fifty rounds in his pockets. Other than that, he had his badge and metal hand cuffs on him. His shiny badge recognized him as police commisioner of Lansing, Michigan.

He looked around himself at the thick, green foliage. Wherever he was, it was far from home…

He adjusts his glasses clumsily and then runs a hand through his sweaty, cropped, sandy brown hair. "Christ James, what have you gotten yourself into now," he says to himself. The commisioner examines his surroundings again.

He's enclosed by ferns and bushes of all sorts, stranded on a little path of dirt and muck. Its when he looks up that he finds what he inteneded too. Above him is a tan parachute hanging miserably from a tree. That explains how he got here, but who threw him out of the plane? All he remembered was… _A flash of light._

He was at a crime scene for a homicide investiagation, it was just him and two detectives. He wandered off only for a few precious moments, he wanted to take another look at the dining room of the murder house. James regretted doing that now as he took his first steps forward into the sticky climate. His gun gripped tightly in both hands, he was ready to take aim on a moment's notice.

The first ferns he moved through felt itchy to his skin as he rubbed his cleanly shaven face. It took mere seconds for him to lose sight of his feet in the endless foliage and soon he walked forward without knowing where he was going. Occasionally he bumped into a tree or a plant too big to walk through. But other than some moss, muck, and dirt, he found nothing of interest.

Jame Howard had never been to a jungle before. Or anywhere with a warm climate for that manner. He had spent his entire life in the northern, midwestern states. Away from the nice climates. That's probably why the humidity and heat was getting to him so fast. He literally felt like he was beyond dehydrated already and he had only been conscious for a few minutes!

That's when he smelt something familiar. _Tobacco smoke…_

The police commissioner instantly crouched. Someone was near by smoking a cigarette. He's been in this situation before, only in a city setting, where he could actually tell where he was going!

His blue eyes searched through the lens of glasses wildly as sweat trickled past his ears. He couldn't see a damn thing! Just green, green, and more green!

Frustrated, he had no chocie but to move in the same direction. So he did, cautiously. He didn't want to ruin his element of surprise…

To his amazement he came into contact with a leavy bush, one that could conceal him, but also allow him to peek through, right to the clearing.

Through the bush he could hear the small stream gushing, and he could also see the ferns on the other side. But neither of those caught his interest, his sense of smell and the cigarette is where his interest was. He was like a shark smelling blood… He had to find out where the smell was coming from…

Suddenly he saw it. A puff of smoke drifting lazily over the stream from his left!

The police commsioner shifts uncomfortably to the bush's other side, careful not to alarm his smoker. His eyes widenen in shock when he spies the culprit.

Sitting on a rock in a yellow, polka dotted suit was a lean man with a massive afro of green, curly hair. His shoes were ridicoulously red and big, and his pants leg was speckled with, yes, _blood…_

James knew exactly who he was staring at. _The killer clown from Detroit… _

Being in the same state as James, the police commisioner was well aware of the serial killer and his many homicides in Detroit. The man was wanted for seven murders so far, all of them inflicted through either butchering or stabbing. This man was dangerous, and mad. He needed to be subdued, immedietly…

James checked his surrondings desperately, and soon was creeping along the foliage line behind the smoking clown. When he was directly behind him, he was still a good two feet away and he could see a bloody machete lying on the rock next to the clown.

The only thing that bothered him, is what could they both possibly be doing in the middle of some jungle? Could it be they were both kidnapped and brought here? Except, that's popsterous, if that were to happen then the kidnappers would have to be on neutral or hostile ground between the both of them. It just didn't add up!

James cocked his pistol and to his fear, the clown stood. He had heard the gun…

The serial killer quickly spun around his hand drawing the cigarette away from his painted red lips to let out a puff of smoke. The killer's hazel, animalistic eyes searched the foliage wildly.

His face was something out of horror movie. Painted all white with black circles around his eyes, and ruby red lips. His greasy hair, obviously dyed green, made the appearance even more frightening if that was possible. James tensed himself, preparing to make his move, just when the clown starts to taunt.

"Come on asshole, you wanna piece of ol' Micheal eh? Bring it on bitch, I know your out there!" He began to laugh insanely. A laugh that makes the commissioner's blood run cold despite the jungle's heat…

Gulping, James knew this was his chance.

He bolted from the ferns full speed at the clown who stopped laughing just in time to receive the pistol's handle to the side of his head. "Ah fuck," he yelped before fallling to the ground with James on top of him. Again the commissioner hit him with the butt of his gun.

"Stay down, keep your hands where I can see them! You're under arrest," James barked.

The serial killer let out a mad laugh as James stood and kicked him hard in the stomach. "Ah you son of a bitch!" The killer rolled over onto his gut in pain just like James had hoped.

Like a lion pouncing on its prey, James sat down on the killer's polka dotted back drawing metal cuffs that gleamed in the sunlight. "You have the right to remain silent, and I'd recommened it if I were you," James informed him before clasping the cuffs around the killer's wrists. Only then did James stand again, but his gun was aimed firmly at the clown's bushy, green head.

"Just who the fuck do you think you are man? I was just trying to figure out where the fuck I am, smoking a cig, and here you are busting me for some crime I didn't commit? Mind telling me just what the fuck I'm getting arrested for anyways?" James made a stern face of content as the killer rolled over onto his back to face him. His eyes seemed to sear into the commissioner's.

"James Howard, Lansing Police Commisioner," he introduced himself to the killer who frowned, despite the red smile painted on his white face.

Suddenly the killer burst out laughing like a maniac on the jungle floor. "Well then, why didn't you say we were introducing one another!" He licked his lips like some sort of a rabid dog, "My name's Micheal, but most people just call me the killer clown of Detroit!"

"I told you that you have the right to remain silent," James snapped back just as he heard an all too familiar click. The commisioner whipped his head up from the clown to stare across the stream at another man.

Said man was wearing all camoflague, with a brown buzz cut and beard that coated his chin. His blue eyes held a fierce gleam to them as he trained his assult rifle on James lethally.

The scene must appear bizarre for any bystanders…

A clown was handcuffed on the forest floor with a man aiming a gun at him, while a soldier was across the stream aiming an even bigger gun at the clown's captor.

Micheal craned his head upwards to get an upside down view at the intruder. Immedietaly the clown began laughing once more. James ignored it however and instead raised his pistol's sight to the bearded man on the opposite side of the stream.

He gulped before speaking, "Okay, please, lower the gun. I think were on the same side here." James was amazed the soldier had let him take aim without receiving a bullet wound of any kind.

The soldier didn't budge. Instead he spoke calmly, "What the fuck is going on?"

His voice came out higher than James had expected. The beard was deceiving, this soldier was actually quite young perhaps. Or his voice just wasn't as low as James had expected it to be. One of the two. It didn't change the current circumstances unforunately…

"What's going on?!" Micheal laughed some more, "Good ass question! Hey commissh, what do ya say to uncuffing me so I can gut the sorry bastard across the stream. Then I can tell him why he's really fucking here!" James frowned at the clown but continued to ignore him to the best of his abilities. He was used to doing such things at the city jail.

"Ignore him," James told the soldier. "But in all seriousness, if I knew what was going on, we wouldn't be pointing guns at each other. So let's both just lower our guns, and try to figure out what's happening here, okay?"

The solider appeared reluctant at first, but suprsingly, lowered his weapon before the commissioner himself did. James let out a massive sigh of releif while Micheal growled with detest on the ground. "I wanted to see some killing damn it!"

James tapped the clown's foot with his shoe, "Shut up Micheal. This is big boy time, okay?" James stared across the clearing at the quiet soldier who was now approaching silently.

He simply stepped over the stream and looked down at Micheal who stared back. "What's with the clown," he asks.

"What's with the clown, what's with fucking military boy eh? Your daddy tell you to join the miliarty or what dumb ass?"

James smirked, "Wish I knew more about him to tell you the truth. He's a serial killer from Detroit, wanted for seven confimred homicides." James paused and looked at the soldier for a long moment. His eyes danced across his bearded face down to the shining dog tags hanging from his neck. "Who are you anyways?"

The soldier looked up quickly. His face one of stone as he examined James and his casual appearance in comparison to himself. Hell James had a pistol compared to an assualt rifle with what looked like a grenade launcher attachement!

"I'm Jack, but most people just call me Jag. Jag Kolinsky, U.S Navy."

James nodded, already pondering why the three of them ended up in this heat stricken jungle. "Nice to meet you Jag. Wish we were in better circumstances, my name is James Howard, Lansing, Michigan Police Commisioner."

"Snore! Snore! Get on with it damn it! I don't have all fucking day to lay here!"

They both ignored Micheal, Jag seemed to have spotted something of intrigue to him. James followed his gaze and watched as the Navy seal crushed the Micheal's still lit cigarette in the dirt. James stared down and watched contently as Jag removed his boot slowly.

"Well Jag," he began without removing his eyes from the ground, _"I think were in hell…" _

**XVX**

Bright green eyes searched back and forth intently from the bush as the scene unfolded. Both men were at an adrenaline rushing showdown. Their weapons trained on each other in a dangerous fashion with cold glares being applied.

"I'm not some pansy from some small town, I recommened you lower the gun to save yourself a bullet wound," the short, pudgy man in the tight gray suit said. Based on his accent, his style of clothing, his weapon, foreign Mob of some sort. Had to be. At least that was Amanda's hypothesis about him.

Across the undergrowth from the shorter man was a tall, lean african man, his bald head gleaming in the sunlight as his brown eyes glared intently at his advesary. In his hands he held an AK-47, he definetly had the firepower on his side in comparison to the short man's tiny magnum. "Shut your cracker ass up and tell me where the fuck we are! I know your lying! All you cuacasian bastards are the same!"

"Whoa there pal, who ya calling cracker? I got a bit of italian in me, but that's not important," he starts to pace. "What's important is why the hell were here. Now I could call you a nigger and just shoot you… believe me I'm contemplating it… But I want answers first. You say your not my kidnapper, asshole?"

This makes the black man furious. "FUCK YOU! Stop lying cracker! You tell me why were here NOW!" An eerie silence fell upon them. Almost like they had noticed the female spying on them from the bushes. But they hadn't. Instead, the assumed Mob member spoke again.

"Look, I'd love to talk about this all day with you. But I'm telling the truth, whether you want to believe it or not, that's up to you, prick."

The african man grimaced and tensed. For a second Amanda thought he would pull the trigger, so she intervened, rushing out of the bush with her hands in the air. Instantly both men turned on her pointing their guns hostilely.

"Oh great, and just who the hell are you," the shorter man demands.

Now that she had a closer look at him, she realized his slicked back hair was gray. The short man was actually rather old, perhaps he wasn't just a mob member, but a mob boss? Someone like that, would own the golden Rolax on his wrist…

As for the other man, he must be some sort of African militia. Possibly a member of Taliban or Al Queda? Both were extremely dangerous, so Amanda knew to do what she was trained to do here.

"I'm Rebecca White," she lies, putting on the best act of distress, that her pretty face would allow. "I was sitting home alone when someone knocked," she gulps to add effect, "When I answered the door their was a blinding light and here I am."

The black man furrowed his dark brow in confusion and exchanged a glance with his once advesary. "Alright, Rebecca. I was abducted the same damn way. Was outside one of my clubs in Vegas, I was waiting with my boys for my limousine. Then whoopity fucking doo, I saw a light too, and woke up sweating my suit to shit. Do you have any idea where the hell we are, or how damn expensive this suit is?"

She shook her head fast enough to make her golden, blonde ponytail slap her cheek. "A jungle of some sort," she says, feigning stupid.

"Nooo, it's a paradise," the mob boss says, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he rolled his eyes hoplessly.

She fought the urge to break his jaw and instead turned her gaze to the black man. _Vegas, the short, old man was certainly invovled in crime… _

Her guess was drug trafficking. That particular crime spree was the most difficult to track in the country. Because even when you busted a dealer, another dealer would always replace the last one and supply the mobs with a whole new surplus of drugs to make money off of.

She wanted names. Perhaps those would help identify as to who these people were exactly. She had estimated guesses, but sometimes names could give away everything. Plus, one might be in the wanted lists back at her HQ. Then she would already know them, and what to expect…

"Do you have a name," she asks gently. Her eyes making fake ovals of wonder.

"Now some cracker ass woman wants to know my name? What the hell is this, some sort of damn joke! My name is Darnell, Laden, fucking African Militia of Sudan!" Perfect. He's extremely racist to whites, but not too bright. Maybe a bit of a realist?

Maybe this jungle drop landing was some sort of sick joke by the U.S government. Maybe some sort of test or elite training drill? But even then she would have noticed the cameras by now, or some sort of indicator that this was a test. Her observation skills far surpassed even the most elite snipers in the military. The Federal Burea of Intelligence was not a group to be messed with…

"So what the hell are we supposed to do now," the now irritated man in the gray suit begins to shout. "Blow our brains out? Eh!?"

Amanda struggles to keep decesive and not her clever self. "I guess, we, try to find the end of the jungle?"

"Shit, alright, alright, alright, sounds good. I'll do the heavy lifting for da team and lead us. Then when we get out I can get all the glory."

Amanda shook her head slowly in disbeleif. She couldn't believe she was playing this role as stupid, innocent Rebecca around these vicious men. "You cracker ass, selfish bastard!" Darnell spat.

The man juts his chin up in the air arrogantly. "Rico don't listen to no one ya dirtbag!"

Rico then began marching off into the woods. Taking the lead, just like he said he would…

Amanda and Darnell stared after him for a few moments. Darnell walking over to her side cautiously, when he stopped he looked down on her.

_"This is hell," he told her… _

**MassEffectBountyHunter: PLEASE DO REVIEW! CRITICISM AND PRAISE WANTED! REVIEWS WILL DETIRMINE THE STORY'S CONTINUATION! XD **


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